January 24, 2023 (2.)

Jim slept at the kitchen table
his face plastered down against a pillow
cushioning the crooked edge of his nose. 
That’s nice, I thought, remembering 
the other gentleman who did not receive 
such practical kindness.  
The chart note says something 
regarding words of comfort, 
but Medicare doesn’t know I haven’t 
called his wife back yet. She’s with a friend
dying of cancer on a cruise, and I will
eventually. Before I returned to my car 
and waved goodbye to the cat 
perched in the laced window watching,
I placed my right hand on Jim’s back,
closed my eyes, and slowed my breath 
to the quiet lull of his mid-morning dreams. 

Birds all a brew in the bush
With the excited chatter tumbling over
I don’t remember the last time 
I was at a table all bubbling over
Some sort of story where we kind of 
Weave in and out with some velocity
It’s a pace change 
With time for a pillow fluffing
And a quiet sip of tee
Between topic changes

On The Fence

New parent friend what friend should I be,

flinty and rusty as the playground gate,

inwardly cursing the coughs

and vocal chords that betray the strain

of bones breaking, muscles popping,

cartilage clicking, new life forming 

from new life, generative life,

until it's not, which is where I'm 

down by the tree by the chainlink,

skin flayed by the winter vortex

of Long Island City,

wind skimming off glass and steel,

drying out my attitude,

finding my peace and my quiet,

nose deep in the accessories

that conscientious parents 

sort into Ziplocks to pass on

and down.